


Watching the Stars Slide Down

by groovyphilia



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst that Hopefully Turns Light-Hearted, Bathroom Sex, Charles Was Half a Virgin Before He Met Erik, Christmasfic, First Times (Kinda), Irritating High-Society Mindsets, M/M, Modern AU, Non-powered AU, Parent Death, Past Character Death, Some Degree of Parental Neglect, What’s the Point of a Marble Sinktop if you Can’t Fuck on It, implied alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groovyphilia/pseuds/groovyphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen-year-old Charles Xavier is ridiculously wealthy, and is used to being paraded around for show at his mother’s high-society Christmas parties. He’s always been rather sporting about it, and dutifully rubs shoulders with the elite every year in the glitz of the mansion ballroom.</p><p>This year, he meets a man by the name of Erik Lehnsherr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching the Stars Slide Down

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the excellent [synekdokee](http://synekdokee.tumblr.com), who saw me waxing lyrical about my childhood and pointed out the immense fic potential, and then persuaded me to add a healthy side of porn. It takes a true friend to corrupt one’s childhood memories like this.
> 
> Also, many thanks to the wonderful [xichxliebexdichx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xichxliebexdichx/pseuds/xichxliebexdichx) for betaing, syn again for the final read-through, and my dear Max for bidet-related affairs.
> 
>  
> 
> **NOTE: Charles is seventeen-going-on-eighteen, which is firmly legal in New York and nearly all US states, so I've chosen not to use the Underage warning - but just in case you'd like a heads up, well, here it is.**
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from [Shampain](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/marinathediamonds/shampain.html) by Marina and the Diamonds, since it was more or less the soundtrack to this fic.

Charles stared at the vest on his armchair.

The armchair had been in his father’s study, moved to Charles’ room upon his request after the man’s death. It happened to be Charles’ favourite, its worn upholstery contrasting oddly with the navy sheen of the vest’s luxurious fabric.

Charles removed the vest gingerly, and set it on the bed instead. His fingers brushed lightly against the shirt accompanying the vest – perfectly complementary, of course – and thought _, soft_. That was a pleasant change.  Last year’s attire had been so thoroughly starched that Charles had been certain it would have stopped a bullet.

_(He is ten (and almost eleven), sniffling and fussing as the maids coax him into a smart dress shirt with decorated cuffs. His mother, perfectly coiffed and immaculately dressed, looks at him disapprovingly from her dressing table._

_“You’d do well to behave, darling,” she says, “I know you don’t feel we should be having the usual party, but it’s important to keep up appearances.”_

_Her lips are blooming red on pale skin. She snaps her makeup bag shut._

_“You’ll understand when you’re older. Bri – your father would have wanted it this way.”)_

The shirt went on without a crease, and then the vest. Charles was momentarily startled by an unexpected glint. Apparently, the shirt he had thought to be plain had small gems – were they real sapphires? He wouldn’t be surprised – set into the cuff buttons.

He had to grudgingly admit that it looked rather nice, a subtle signal of luxury without being ostentatious. His mother must have picked it out personally.

_(He is eleven (and almost twelve), the future stretching before him like a vast and endless ocean. There are no hands to pull him up if he tips overboard (they are clutching a bottle, or decomposing six feet under)._

_He adjusts his sleeves at the doorway, face carefully arranged into a stiff mask, a steel-porcelain look unsuited to on his young features. He straightens up warily at the sound of approaching footsteps. His mother approaches, and regards him appraisingly._

_“Smile,” she said. “Trying too hard is as bad as letting them see you fall into disrepair.”_

_She frowns, then, and smoothes out the wrinkles in his jacket._

_“Blue is certainly your colour, dear,” she remarks. “It brings out your eyes.”)_

“Right, then,” he muttered to his reflection. It stared suspiciously back. “Off we go.”

The distant murmur of the arriving guests escalated into lively chatter as Charles approached the entrance hall. It would, of course, be sumptuously decorated for the occasion, all glittering chandeliers and gold-dusted holly entwining the banisters. He used to watch the staff fuss over the decorations as a child, assembling the towering Christmas tree and scrutinising colour charts. It hadn’t lost its novelty, but apparently it was unbecoming for a young man to spy on people from the top of a stairwell.

_(He is six (and almost seven), and the ballroom is a winter wonderland. Clusters of crystal snowflakes hang from the ceiling, spinning gently on invisible strings. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, faint scent of pine, and reaches towards the Christmas tree. Its boughs are dusted with white, a mimicry of freshly-fallen snow, and rubs off on his fingertips. He rubs his hand hastily on his trousers, and stares in dismay as it leaves a chalky stain on the dark fabric._

_An arm wraps around his waist, gently tugging him back, and Charles gives a surprised squeak._

_“Now, now,” says his father, eyes crinkling in amusement. “We can’t let your mother see_ that _, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”)_

He had missed the usual spectacle this year, but it was inevitable. At long last, he was seventeen years old, and of course, he already had an early acceptance to Oxford University, which meant plenty of packing and arrangements before Christmas. His mother had been pleased – or at least, he guessed she was; it had been difficult to tell at the time with the slur in her words. Still, she had approached him at dinner the night before _(a startling change; he usually ate alone)_ and made a pointed remark of how _wonderful_ it was he would be attending a university of _such prestige_ , and how _eager_ all the guests would be to hear all about it.

This was standard procedure for his mother’s high-society parties. It was an unspoken rule that one would keep a mental list of accomplishments to be engineered into conversation pieces whenever appropriate. It was a delicate art – boasting was unbecoming; subtler means had to be employed to ensure that one’s peers would be embroiled in bitter envy – and a petty game to some, but Charles knew for a fact it was anything but pointless. Life was astoundingly smooth when everybody knew they were faced with the influential, respectable, and _wealthy_ Xaviers.

Charles reached the end of the corridor. He stepped out into the landing, and was immediately blinded by a sea of lights. _Oh,_ he thought vaguely, _I forgot about this year’s trends._

Apparently, people now thought it great fun to hold parties in the form of a pseudo-masquerade; the usual Christmas affair, but with the guests in a dizzying array of masks, embellished with sequins and stars and feathers. Charles scanned the floor of the entrance hall, absently cataloguing the varying degrees of showiness – a scattered handful of guests had opted for plain dominos, while others preferred detailed paintings of nativity scenes. Few were strictly anonymous – the entire point of these parties, after all, was to be identified and _remembered_ – but it did not necessarily make Charles’ duty of knowing their names any easier.

They swarmed below, resplendent in their swirling silks and rich brocades. For the first time in years, Charles felt slightly nervous.

_(He is sixteen (and almost seventeen), top of his class, pride of the school and head intern at one of the most reputable research facilities in the country. His shirt is switched out at the last minute for one with a higher collar. He doesn’t look half as comfortable in it, but it disguises the bruises well enough._

_He holds his head high as he sidesteps the more drunken guests, enunciates his words crisply and clearly, and saves the sincerity in his smiles for later._

_“Talent,” says one of the guests bitterly, swirling his drink in its cocktail glass. A deep, reddish liquid pools above the stem, and a slice of fresh orange is perched jauntily on the rim. “Talent and smarts. You have them both, you know.”_

I know, _Charles thinks privately, but settles for an incline of the head in acknowledgement and a modest ‘thank you.’_

 _“Not a lot of good it’ll do you, in this playing field,” the man continues, “Connections, my boy – that’s what you need._ Connections. _Your first job that’s worth your time and effort will come from the cousin of somebody you’ve charmed the socks off at a party, mark my words. It goes deeper than work, too – it certainly worked out for Mr. Marko, didn’t it?”_

_He laughs uproariously, deeply tickled by his insinuations, and takes a long sip from his orange cocktail. He pats Charles on the back._

_“You’ve got nothing to worry about, being an Xavier. Shame that it didn’t help Brian in the end,” says the guest with something resembling regret.)_

The guests, Charles had to think, as he swam through the crowd, were like wolves, and he was the proverbial sheep – particularly because, he thought snidely, all wolves must look the same to sheep.

 “Charles!” A man approached, ruddy-faced and beaming. _(Mister... S, Charles thought desperately. I know it starts with an S.)_ “My, look at how much you’ve grown.”

“Wonderful to see you again, Mister _– Smprrhl_ ,” Charles replied, deliberately muffling himself with a smoked salmon tart, “I – er – I don’t think I’ve seen you for a year, have I?”

“Two years, actually,” the man said, tilting his head quizzically. “My family and I were on vacation last winter, terribly unfortunate. Still, France is beautiful at this time of the year, don’t you agree? My brother-in-law attended in my place – you remember him, of course.”

“Oh _, yes_ ,” Charles lied, desperately crossing several S-names off a mental list. “Yes, of course, he—”

“Pardon me,” a voice interrupted. The voice, it seemed, was accompanied by a hand, which deftly took a hold of Charles’ arm and tugged him away. Under normal circumstances, Charles would have been perturbed by the gesture, but its abruptness was somewhat eclipsed by his gratitude at being rescued.

“Thank you,” Charles breathed, resisting the urge to embrace his rescuer. “I mean – er. May I help you, Mister...?” Dismay quickly made a re-entrance as he surveyed the man before him. He was tall, for one thing. His suit perfectly accentuated the leanness of his body. His mask was curiously non-descript, and seemed to have been added as an afterthought. None of the above gave Charles any clues as to his identity at all.

It felt less like a straw breaking any camel’s back, and more like a heavy cloud settling over Charles’ mind. A cloud that, it seemed, was roughly formed to spell the words ‘ _Oh, fuck it all’._

“Do I know you?” he asked bluntly.

The newcomer raised an eyebrow, and took a sip from his champagne. “Considering I just saved you from imminent social disaster, I thought you’d at least pretend to know.”

“You were mistaken,” Charles said. The man, he noted with irritation, had rather striking eyes. “I was faring perfectly well. I’ve handled enough of these parties, you know.”

“Of course you have,” the man agreed, with an unreadable stare. It made Charles feel mildly discomfited. “And I’m certain you’ve enjoyed them wholeheartedly.” The bite of sarcasm that laced his words was surprisingly gentle, and made Charles think inanely of being nudged by a petulant cat. A poor comparison, for this particular guest – he reminded Charles of a shark. It was probably the teeth.

“Still,” the man continued, idly turning the glass in his fingers, “it could always be a little more lively, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s lively enough,” Charles, wisely, responded with the caution of a man who didn’t know if he was being propositioned or offered a criminal partnership. “But most things could do with a bit of extra excitement, I always say.”

The man responded with another look, this time distinctly predatory. It gave Charles pause.

 _(He is twelve (and almost thirteen), and stewing in annoyance at having to take_ etiquette lessons _, of all things. It isn’t as though he doesn’t know how to conduct himself – child or not, he has impeccable manners and is startlingly fluent in conversation to boot. No, Charles’ problem is that he apparently does not know how to act his age. Children are supposed to be flighty and carefree, obedient with a charming dose of cheek, an endless well of joy for adults to drink from in their troubles and bemoan the loss of their own naive and simple youth._

 _Children are not supposed to speak harsh truths with bitterness on their tongues. Children are supposed to be smart, smart enough for grown-ups to coo over what a clever boy was – but not_ too _smart, dear goodness no._

_Charles Xavier is exceedingly clever, and painfully aware that crying does not always solve problems. Crying does not bring people back._

_He thinks of nights in the lab, perched on a stool, feet swinging freely above the ground as his father fiddles with beakers and shuffles through woefully messy stacks of reports. He focuses on memories of Brian Xavier, the scientist, the visionary, telling him about genetics and Einstein and all manner of entrancing things; memories of himself, at yet another Christmas party, proudly declaring he would be a scientist_ , just like his father _—_

_And yet._

_Growing up in wealth and privilege, tucked away from the world, unquestionably brilliant but equally naive. An ignorant statement, an arrogant remark, a bubble of high society that blinded all to the outside with its glittering walls. Hopeless dependence that can only arise from being loved, no queries, no questions of who he was or what he wanted, because_ of course _he only wanted to be just like his father, who could want anything else?—_

_Charles had always tried to be optimistic. In some light, a Brian Xavier-shaped hole in the world is a good thing. Fierce independence and a strong spirit are tempered by few things better than loss._

_The marble floor of the ballroom gleams, as usual. Charles has soft, dark hair in gentle waves, another thing inherited from his father, but his mother has always been brilliantly blonde. It catches the light where she stands, hopelessly pretty as a man smiles and offers her a flute of champagne._

_The man introduces himself as Kurt Marko, and Charles feels faintly sick.)_

“I’m very sorry,” Charles bowed, taking a pointed step back. “I’m afraid I have other duties to attend – er, must have slipped my mind. Enjoy the party, sir.” He darted through the crowd before the man could respond, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The success of extricating himself from half-unwanted conversation was less sweet than expected, however, as well as short-lived – two minutes into picking his way through the perfume (and cologne) saturated crowd, and—

“Charles, darling!”

Charles turned, and was promptly blinded by a violently glittery dress. Judging by the accompanying mask, the woman contained within the storm of sparkles was attempting to be a snowflake, and did so with moderate success. Wrapping herself in Christmas lights would have been less conspicuous, Charles had to think – 

“Excuse me?” the woman stared. Apparently, the last bit had been said out loud. Wonderful.

“I said it was a shame we didn’t put out the silver lights,” Charles said hastily.”It would have gone very nicely with your lovely outfit.”

The woman beamed, appeased. “You’re a good boy, Charles,” she leaned over to pinch his cheek. Charles did his best to conceal his horror. “It’s a shame that Brian isn’t here to see the respectable young man you’ve become. I’m sure he would have been very proud.”

“Thank you very much,” Charles said, quashing the jolt in his stomach. “Respectable. Very kind of you to say.” The woman, however, had already bustled off with most of the other quests. Somewhere along the far corridor, a bell rang for dessert.

 _Respectable_ , Charles thought numbly, straightening his jacket. He would not have had it any other way, of course – being a hooligan would have cost him far more than the release it would have granted. Still, he could not help but feel… not that he had missed out, but that if there was a game, he had lost it.

Then again, it was probably true that Brian Xavier would have been proud.

The surge of anger Charles felt at the thought took him by surprise. What good did it do him, after all, pleasing a man who had been dead for the better of seven years? What had he to be proud of, proving himself to a stone-cold corpse?

(“ _Shame that it didn’t help Brian in the end,” says the guest.)_

Charles snatched a fluted glass from a passing waiter, and downed it in one gulp. The bittersweet tang of cider lingered at the back of his throat; never mind that he was too young to drink. It wasn’t strong, and even that hadn’t stopped him before.

 _Misery_ , he thought bitterly, _can always grow into something useful. Presumably if planted like a seed – buried in the dirt and watered generously with alcohol._  Discipline kept him from dragging his feet to the adjacent ballroom, though it came fairly close. _I suppose I’m thinking like my mother, now, and look at where that got her. (_ Us, _a vindictive little voice hissed at the back of his mind.)_

Sharon Xavier, as a matter of fact, was playing hostess at the dessert table, smile as sweet as sugar. The lighting made it look like she had a blonde halo. Charles spared her the briefest of glances, before turning away.

The man from before caught his eye.

_(He is thirteen (and almost fourteen), and the cadence of different footsteps have been catalogued in his mind. He knows when to hide. He knows when to flinch. His heart stops at the sound of opening doors. Fear curls constantly in the pit of his stomach, twisting with snakes of rage in rippling, boiling hatred._

_He does not cry. Crying is about as useful in making people go away as it is in bringing people back._

_Charles takes deep breaths, and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s growing up, anybody can see – taller, broader, and far stronger in constitution._

I am _more_ than pain and anger, _he reminds himself, and buttons up his vest.)_

“I must apologise for my earlier rudeness,” Charles found himself crossing the ballroom floor. “This party is a bit disorientating.”

“Of course,” the man said genially, and Charles had to wonder if he was being mocked. Not that it would dissuade him.

“I don’t believe,” he pressed, “that I caught your name.”

“I thought your kind had the duty of knowing the guest list by heart,” the man replied, laughing and raising his palms at Charles’ glare. “Very well. Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Lehnsherr,” Charles repeated, skimming through his mental guest list. _LeBeau... Lee..._ “And that is the name on your invitation?”

Erik bared his teeth in a smile. “I passed security, didn’t I?”

“Security doesn’t have the duty of memorising the guest list by heart, nor the opportunity to interrogate every arrival,” Charles returned. “More importantly, security isn’t _me._ You’re not a gate-crasher, are you?”

“The appetisers are good, but not _that_ good,” Erik responded, leaning against the balustrade. The evasion was not lost on Charles, but somehow, the sleek lines of Erik’s torso seemed far more important.

“I’m fairly certain only a sixth of the guests are here for the food,” Charles said, mouth suddenly dry. “And two thirds are only here to schmooze.”

Erik’s lips quirked. “And the remaining sixth?”

“I don’t know. To fuck in a bathroom with crystal taps, most likely,” Charles said before he could stop himself. The last word caught in his throat, and Charles found himself washing it down with a glass of champagne, cheeks burning.

Erik, to his surprise, merely burst into laughter. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “And I suppose you know a lot about that, then?” Erik said, a smile still pulling at his lips, lightly teasing.

“I could know more,” Charles managed – and watched, fascinated, at Erik’s subtle shift in expression.

“You don’t seem the type.” Erik inclined his head. Charles was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were. “Charles Xavier. I’ve heard of you, you know. People are pre-emptively calling you Oxford’s golden boy.”

“My academic prowess has nothing to do with my experience in other areas.”

“I simply meant you’re hardly the type to misbehave.”

“Then I suppose,” Charles said, as Erik raked his gaze along the length of his body in a completely unsubtle gesture, “that it’s about time I’ve stopped being a good boy.”

Silence hung between them, suspended from the chandeliers. The guests gathered at the far end of the ballroom, congregating around fountains of chocolate fondue.

“So, the crystal taps,” Erik began.

“They’re atrocious,” said Charles. “Let me show you.”

***

It was with some confusion that Charles found himself sitting on the sink counter with his pants around his ankles.

He dimly remembered hauling Erik into the bathroom by the lapels of his jacket, for starters, and locking the door triumphantly before letting Erik pull him into a rather obscene plundering of his mouth that vaguely resembled a kiss. Unfortunately, it had been followed by a muttered, “The taps aren’t so bad,” and Charles might have ended up taking off his trousers in retaliation.

He had lifted himself, then – or Erik had lifted him, he wasn’t sure – onto the counter space between the two sinks, and may or may not have squeaked at the cold press of marble against his rear. By his memory, it was a firm ‘not,’ but judging by the way Erik was laughing, the man probably disagreed.

“Stop that,” Charles hissed, wriggling uncomfortably. “ _You_ sit on the damned sink, then, if you find it so hilarious.”

“Who needs two sinks in a single bathroom?” Erik wondered, fiddling with his belt buckle – the prong caught on the eyelet, and Erik yanked it free of his trousers with a ‘tsk’. It clattered unceremoniously to the floor. “Why would you _ever_ need two sinks at once?”

“One to wash your right hand and the other for your left, no doubt,” Charles said impatiently. He had to resist the urge to swing his legs. “And did you really have to throw your belt like that? You’ll scratch the tiles.”

“Please shut up,” said Erik, and kissed him again.

Erik kissed, Charles decided, like the arch-demon of cunnilingus, not that he knew much about that. Much of his past experience involved lonely private school boys fumbling in tousled sheets (and he had only regretted about ten percent of it).

“Er,” he manages to say, in a pause for breath. Erik drew back a fraction, eyebrow raised. “You wouldn’t happen to have a condom, would you?”

Erik reached wordlessly for the suit jacket – folded neatly and placed in the corner – and retrieved the object in question from his wallet.

“And something to, um,” Charles said, wiggling his fingers pointedly. “Well, the necessary equipment to ease things along, you know.”

“Charles,” said Erik. “You’re sitting half-naked on your guest room sink, and you’re choosing to start being delicate about this?”

“ _One_ of my guest rooms,” Charles corrected, and Erik sighed. “And I’ll be delicate about whatever I please, thank you very much. You, on the other hand, should be focusing on demolishing what remains of my virtue.”

Erik tutted, folding his arms. “Then I’m afraid we’re out of luck, young Master Xavier. Or do I look like the kind of man who walks around with lubricant in his pocket?”

“I’m not really certain what that kind of man looks like at all,” Charles returned, unfettered. “A shame. I suppose we’ll have to do without it.”

Erik fixed Charles with a stare. It was a stare that persisted for longer than Charles felt strictly comfortable with. “Well, get on with it,” Charles said petulantly.

“Charles,” said Erik. “Have you done this before?”

“...Yes,” Charles half-lied, with a second too long of a pause.

Erik, naturally, looked extremely unconvinced. To Charles’ dismay, the man started reaching for his belt.

“Oh, for—” Charles had to resist the urge to kick Erik in the stomach. “And _that’s_ a deal-breaker for you? You gate-crash a party, seduce the hostess’ son, fondle him in the guest bathroom, and you’re going to stop because he hasn’t—”

“I am not stopping because of _that,”_ Erik said sharply, straightening up. He threaded the belt through his belt loops. “Not precisely. I’m stopping because you deserve better than a bathroom fuck with a complete stranger for your... first experience. And by the way, I think we disagree on who seduced who.”

Charles chose to ignore the latter statement. “Don’t tell me what I deserve,” he snapped. “I’m old enough to at least know what I want at the moment.”

“So does every kid from ages six to seventeen, apparently.”

His temper flared. “I am not,” Charles said, knuckles white on the edge of the sink. “A _child._ ”

Silence, again. It was considerably more uncomfortable than the one before, though oddly equivalent in sexual tension.

“No,” Erik agreed, to Charles’ surprise. “You’re not. That, at least, we can agree on.”

“I—”

“Charles.” Erik leaned close, hands (dear god, they were large) bracketing Charles’ hips. The words died in Charles’ throat. “What is this to you?”

Charles balked. “Not an occasion for sentiment, for starters.”

“I never thought this was _sentimental,_ ” Erik said derisively. “But it’s clearly something. Convince me, if you’re so adamant that this is what you want.”

“You’re asking quite a bit for a gate-crasher.”

“ _Charles.”_

“It’s a dirty fuck in the second-floor bathroom; what do you think it is?”

“You’re far too clever for it to be that simple.”

“Am I?”

 _“Yes,_ ” Erik said lowly, and the sincerity in his voice struck something strange at Charles’ core. Even more inexplicably, it sends a tremble right down to the tips of his toes.

“You’re a farewell, I suppose,” Charles finally said – because Erik _was_ , he was a goodbye to the country clubs and gold-plated candlesticks; he was a stranger taking Charles’ clothes off in a bathroom and he was all it _deserved_. “You’re a final, very literal _‘fuck you.’_ Will that satisfy?”

If Charles’ own honesty was surprising, it was nothing compared to Erik’s responding smile. Neither, however, were as unexpected as Erik reaching for his jacket and pulling out his phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked, only to be shushed. Erik frowned, apparently engrossed in expensive-looking smartphone, and Charles naturally had to take a peek.

“Are you _Googling?_ ” he demanded, appalled. “I’m certain this isn’t legitimate foreplay.”

“We don’t have lube,” Erik answered shortly. “I’m looking up a substitute.”

“If all impromptu hook-ups are this troublesome, you may very well be my last,” Charles groused, and was promptly struck speechless as Erik kissed him on the cheek. It effectively kept him silent for the remainder of Erik’s research, which had probably been the man’s intention.

Erik rummaged through the cabinets, humming to himself. Charles made a point of twiddling his thumbs and kicking his feet. “Are you quite done?” he finally asked, as Erik pulled out a bottle, checking the label with a triumphant ‘ha.’ “Or would you like me to pour us a cup of tea, first?”

A pop of the bottle cap. “You never do stop talking, do you?” Erik remarked, straightening up and slicking his fingers with some unidentifiable lotion.

“Only when my arse is getting sore from sitting on this cold, hard counter,” Charles answered. Erik clearly intended to make a smart remark – something about what awaited Charles if he felt soreness from just _sitting too long,_ no doubt – and so Charles pulled his legs up, placing his feet on the counter and spreading his knees in a shamelessly lewd display. As expected, Erik’s retort seemed to die in his throat.

Charles beamed, and wiggled his toes.

“Always a little too far,” Erik muttered. The rasp to his voice made Charles grin even wider. “You always have to do just _one more thing_ to ruin it.”

“Well, since you’ve been doing a poor job of ruining _me_ ,” Charles returned. “And so awfully slow as well. Are you going to sit there and make me finger myself, perh—” The taunt cut off into a rather undignified squeak at the sudden intrusion of Erik’s fingers. “ _Oh_ , now, that was a little too hasty, you needn’t—”

“You talk,” Erik interrupted, punctuating his words with another thrust of his fingers, “too much.”

“Entirely your fault,” Charles accused, toes curling as his eyes fluttered shut. “If you were _– oh,_ that was nice – if you were properly doing your job, I wouldn’t remember _how_ to talk.”

The steady rhythm of Erik’s hand came to an abrupt stopped. Charles blinked, opening his eyes and mouth to protest, only to be met with a blinding set of teeth bared in a wide grin. It was a grin that said _‘Challenge Accepted.’_

Charles swallowed nervously. His, “I don’t mean to imply you have anything less than a lovely smile, but—” was abruptly cut off as Erik thrust his fingers deep, once, twice, and then curled them in a way that made Charles’ mind explode into ridiculous thoughts of, _oh, I wasn’t aware there was a switch down there_ , because _dear god_ , there was electricity surging down his spine and leaving his extremities tingling. Charles thought faintly of cyborgs.

“You just mumbled ‘circuits,’” Erik murmured, the smirk bleeding through his voice. “I’ll take the lack of coherency as a good sign.”

The fight to regain mastery of the English language was an arduous one. Through sheer obstinacy, Charles prevailed. “You’re better at this than numerous teenage private school boys, at least.”

He bestowed Erik with the most patronising pat on the shoulder he could muster, though the tremble in his fingers detracted from it somewhat.

Still, it seemed to work. Erik let out something of an irritated snarl – _really,_ a _snarl,_ who _did_ that? – and then he was making Charles moan once again, just a little bit too rough, but god forbid Charles admit that now, not when he had resolved to take as much as Erik had to give but _oh dear he wasn’t sure if he had been ready for another finger._ Charles’ hips gave a confused rock as he simultaneously attempted to force himself further onto Erik’s digits and scramble away from them, a movement that unfortunately had Erik banging his nose on Charles’ collarbone.

“Sorry,” Charles said helplessly, but Erik had already lowered his head once again, kissing along the flush of Charles’ shoulder, his teeth catching lightly on the freckled skin – then his fingers push against something that makes Charles’ vision burn white-hot and sends his back arching, about to plead for more, until he notices the slight shake of Erik’s shoulders. It was somewhat offensive that Erik could find something hilarious when Charles was in the throes of pleasure, a sentiment that Charles opens his mouth to echo, until—

“Is that,” Charles said slowly, “Beethoven’s fifth symphony? _Really_ , Erik?”

“You can tell? Whatever music lessons you had have finally been put to use,” Erik remarked, tapping a few more bars against Charles’ prostate. Charles was hopelessly torn between how maddeningly good it felt and how idiotic it was.

His tailbone was uncomfortably sore, the marble sinktop grinding painfully into the bottom of his spine with each shift downward. It was a testament to how aroused he was that he was still painfully hard. Hard. Sinktops. And cocks. Surely the latter was preferable, on the hardness scale. Measures: _scratch, indentation, and rebound._ The comparison didn’t make the slightest amount of sense, but then again, neither did any of Charles’ other thoughts. “Ow,” he mumbled. A movement took him by surprise, and Erik was leaning in between his thighs, one hand cradling the base of Charles’ back – it was an oddly tender gesture, one that Charles had no idea how to react to.

He might, however, have been imagining the tenderness, because Erik’s next words sounded nothing but smug. “You’ve gone quiet, Charles. Cat got your tongue?”

 _No, there’s a shark in my rear,_ Charles thought of saying, but that didn’t even make _sense_. _No,_ Charles was not about to back down from this battle; he took a deep breath, slowed his panting and rocking, and wiped away the bead of sweat trickling down his jaw.

“Did you use the lotion from the cupboard? I’ll be very upset if my arse smells like shea butter and lavender. I might have a reason to use the bidet.”

Erik’s range of expressions, Charles thought, really ought to be framed – preferably in stop-motion slides to catalogue the gradual shift from blankness to deep annoyance. It takes an astonishing amount of willpower not to laugh out loud – and then Charles found himself being peeled off the sink and settled on the floor. It was remarkably sobering.

“You’re not _leaving_ me like this, are you?” he protested, appalled. “I’m going to rut against you and ruin your suit.”

“Shut up and bend over the sink.”

“Ah.”

Charles briefly surveyed himself in the mirror as he obeyed (far more willingly than he was proud of) – dishevelled, flush travelling down past the top of his shirt, pupils blown wide and sweat-damp hair curling across his forehead – he looked thoroughly fucked, and they hadn’t even gotten around to it yet. Fortunately, Erik seemed to have every intention of remedying the situation: a rustle of fabric, and the head of Erik’s cock pressed against Charles’ entrance; to Charles’ embarrassment, he actually _whined_ , then Erik pushed in slowly and he was left with his nails scrabbling helplessly against the marble thinking _too much, too much_ – and god, he wished he had taken a good look when he had the chance because it seemed that Erik was packing some serious heat.

Somebody was speaking, and Charles was fairly certain he was currently unable to emit anything but gasps and a strange sort of choked moan. Logic, therefore, entailed that the person speaking was Erik, though Charles was having difficulty hearing him through his haze of arousal – something he was determined to overcome, because if Erik intended to talk dirty to him in that rough, gravelly voice of his, he wouldn’t miss it for the world—

“—but a bidet is a true indicator of pointless wealth.”

The gears in Charles’ head seemed to be stuck. “What?”

 “I mean,” Erik muttered, beginning a slow, gentle rock of his hips, one that made Charles struggle to bite back a sob of need. “You have more money than sense, if you have a device specifically for washing your anus.”

“Erik,” Charles choked, “now? _Must you_?”

“What is stopping you,” Erik continued, as though he hadn’t heard, “from wiping yourselves with toilet paper like the rest of the world, you pompous bastar—”

“All right!” Charles gasped, gritting his teeth. “All right, you win, I’m _sorry._ Enough talking, _please.”_

The answering chuckle had Charles frowning petulantly, because it simply wasn’t _fair_ that he was writhing against the sink counter while the other man barely seemed affected at all – the slow, building rhythm of his hips hadn’t even stuttered once during his tirade against the bidet, not even when his cock had dragged against something that made Charles hiss and _clench_. It was a fair blow to the ego – or so Charles thought, until he lifted his gaze to meet Erik’s in the mirror, and thought, _oh._ Erik, apparently, didn’t look half as nonchalant as he sounded, sweat beading on his brow and muscles tense and shaking from the strain of holding back, or going slow and easy, of _not hurting Charles._

The rush of affection it sparked within him was completely undeserved, Charles thought. Refraining from hurting Charles made Erik decent, not a saint – even if decent men were hard to come by and saints were purely wishful thinking. Charles pondered this for several moments, and determinedly replaced the affection with indignation.

“Are you all right?” Erik murmured, and he sounded _concerned_ , like he had the bloody right – Charles responded with a low, keening whine, pushing back and ignoring the spark of pain that accompanies the slap of Erik’s balls against his bare ass.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he challenged, bracing himself.

Erik, unfortunately, only leaned forward, his chest flush against Charles’ back. Charles could feel Erik’s lips on his neck, and swallowed.

“You’re a spoiled brat, Xavier,” said Erik, and he actually sounded _fond._ The nerve of the man. “You’ll probably only get more insufferable over the years.”

“And _you’re_ bad news,” Charles answered, squirming in an attempt to urge Erik faster. It wasn’t remotely successful. “Especially if this is how you treat nice young men.”

“Oh, Charles,” Erik said dryly. “You are many things, but a nice young man is not one of them.”

 _I’m plenty nice_ , Charles thought of saying, but then there’s a gentle smack to his rear and a hush – he actually looked back, completely offended, until Erik’s hand wrapped around his dick _(which, he noted with delight, had been smearing precome liberally on the panelled cabinet door)_ and a smart answer was immediately booted down his list of priorities. Erik’s hands felt rough, even the thumb that rubbed lightly against the tip and made Charles’ hips jerk. Charles dimly thought about how Erik fucked like he _was_ ; he looked _(and felt)_ hard and rough and raw, but moved like Charles might break into pieces.

It pissed Charles off beyond comprehension. He had asked many things of Erik, not least of which being sex, but he hadn’t asked for kindness – not even if he was starting to feel stretched and sore, and each movement that sent him whimpering in agonised pleasure was starting to deal equal amounts of pain.

“Erik,” Charles said evenly, “if you don’t put your back into this, I swear, I will shove you down and ride your cock to orgasm myself.”

It was oddly exhilarating to watch Erik’s eyes go dark with something indescribable. The hands on Charles’ hips were suddenly gripping hard enough to bruise the pale skin, and Erik was right and properly _fucking_ Charles into the counter surface, hard enough to send Charles clawing at the marble and biting back a pleasure-pained scream, and then there was the rush of strange, vindictive joy when he felt the hot rush of breath against the nape of his neck and its accompanying groan as Erik drove into him deep enough to feel for days. Charles would curse this later, on a long and aching flight to England, but for now, all he can focus on is the hitch of Erik’s breath and his bone-deep shudder.

There was something amusing in being hard beyond belief and feeling utterly boneless, but Charles couldn’t find the energy to properly construct the pun. He reached down, fumbling in an attempt to bring himself off, only to have Erik slap his hands away and wrap his long fingers around Charles’ cock instead – “Oh god _, fuck,_ Erik _please_ —” – and then Charles is finally, _thank-fucking-god-finally_ coming, a warm, sticky mess over Erik’s fingers and the already-desecrated cabinets, though Charles found himself inexplicably fixating on the former.

The corner of Charles’ mind that still retained its awareness of the surroundings was, for a moment, confused by the sudden absence of their reflections. This was shortly followed by the mildly mortifying realisation that they had fogged all the mirrors up.

A few moments passed, with nothing but harsh, slowing pants to fill the silence. “I’m disappointed,” Erik finally remarked.

Charles looked up from where he was slumped weakly against the sink, startled and offended. “...Excuse me?”

“I was so certain,” Erik’s eye-crinkling smile was creeping up onto his face again, “that you’d finish off with telling me you had better.”

Charles stared. The post-orgasmic haze was finally starting to clear, and he began to laugh, hopelessly affectionate, pausing only to yelp as Erik pulled out and left him feeling strangely empty.

“Erik.” Charles straightened up gingerly, leaning against the sink counter. The man in question peeled off the condom, wiped his hands on a towel and tucked himself back into his pants. “How old are you?”

Erik stared, a hand on his zipper. “Shouldn’t you have asked me that before letting me fuck you against the sink?”

“Humour me.”

“Fine,” Erik sighed. Deft fingers threaded his belt through the buckle and pulled it taught. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“Oh,” Charles blinked in surprise. “You look about thirty-five, I thought.”

“Thank you for that,” Erik said dryly. He surveyed his salvaged attire, shirt hopelessly rumpled, and tried to smooth down his trousers. “Would knowing my true age have affected your decision?”

“Heavens, no. No use in having a marble sink counter if one doesn’t fuck on it.”

A bark of laughter. “Fair enough, though you could have done very well with a pretty young thing more your age.”

“There wouldn’t be any novelty.”

“There are words for young men like you, Xavier.”

“Why, Mr. Lehnsherr – are you calling me a slut?”

“I was thinking ‘incorrigible.’”

“You’re too kind. Will I see you again?”

The question was out before Charles could stop himself, and their easy banter ground to an abrupt halt. Regret welled up, tight and curling in the pit of his stomach, for the first time that night – and Erik’s silence was not doing anything to assuage it, either.

“Forget it,” Charles said, feeling the heat in his cheeks. “It was a habit; I—”

“I’d like to,” Erik interrupted, and Charles fell silent from sheer surprise. “Very much, actually. I highly doubt, however, that _you_ will.”

“I believe we’ve already had the conversation about telling me what I want,” Charles said stiffly. “In any case, it isn’t very becoming to pull the youth card after I’ve been thoroughly debauched at your hands.”

“I did not,” Erik pointed out, “say a word about your relative youth.”

Charles glowered as the man retrieved his jacket, and made a commendable effort at straightening himself up. He wasn’t a fool, not by any means, and had known exactly what he was walking into, but Erik was... confusing. There was a fine line between gentle concern and cold taciturnity, and he sauntered nonchalantly from side to side rather than treading the divide. Also, he was cryptic. Charles wasn’t a fan of cryptic (it was, after all, _his_ job).

_(“It’s all about appearances, you see,” his mother slurs. The fingers clutching her glass are trembling.)_

“Charles,” Erik said, and the edges of his voice had softened again. “I’m not being patronising.”

_(“I know, Mother,” says Charles.)_

“It’s fine,” Charles said, shrugging. He was abruptly aware of the slickness between his thighs, and the powerful urge to clean himself off.

_(“No, you don’t. They’re all counting on us, you know.” She takes another gulp. “And when I’m gone, they’ll be counting on you.”)_

“No,” said Erik accurately, “it isn’t.” He paused, dithering – for a moment, he looked as though he would move towards Charles, but settled for resting his hand on the doorknob instead. His fingers tapped against the brass. “I – Charles. Listen to me.”

“I’m listening, _sir_.”

“Then look at me.”

_(Charles is silent.)_

Charles looked up.

Erik, to his surprise, seemed uncomfortable. Not regretfully so, but the discomfort a person carried when they had words on a fishing line and couldn’t quite decide if they ought to cast it. “Charles,” Erik repeated, “you are worth more than both of your parents put together – and a thousand, a fucking _million_ times more than the Markos or any of the guests at this party.”

The raise of Charles’ eyebrow was slight, and barely noticeable. “Thank you. You’re very kind,” he responded, polite and perfect.

 _(“And that’s why,” she continues, faltering in her words. Her eyes are vacant. “And that’s why, darling, they must never see you crumble. You can fall into disrepair_ _for every other day of the year, but don’t you_ ever _let them see it. Don’t let them see you break.”)_

Disappointment flickered across Erik’s face, before lapsing back into its unreadable mask. He sighed, and the lock clicked open.

“Goodnight, then. And...” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

_(“I know,” says Charles.)_

_***_

_He reads the papers on his first class flight to England._

_Seeing his family name in the papers is hardly new, but it had always been confined to particular sections – papers dedicated to society news, perhaps, or scientific discovery, in his father’s day. It goes without saying that Crime is a new one._

_He skims the headlines and the opening paragraphs – Xavier Christmas function as spectacular as expected, nothing amiss, no suspicious behaviour reported, youngest son unavailable for comment. Missing items: undisclosed, though ‘rumours’ of removed valuables and research papers persist. Charles passes this over. Missing persons: Mr. Sebastian Shaw. The name means nothing to him._

_Terrible, his mother is reported as saying, it’s simply terrible; a dreadful embarrassment for the Xavier family to be victims of such malicious deeds, and poor Mr. Shaw, too. No, of course they hadn’t any idea how this could have happened – security is state-of-the-art, the Xavier-Markos are open books, and their boys are absolute angels._

_In his memory, Erik is handsome and smiling, and beckons from across the ballroom. Charles folds the paper, looks out of the window, and watches the sun sink into the seas._


End file.
